Secret Ponds and Strange Flies
For the past three years my Montana fishing buddy has promised to take me to a couple of secret ponds he has permission to fish. They are farm ponds on the very large ranch of a fairly wealthy Bozeman family.
“Full of browns and rainbows and the smallest I’ve ever caught was about 20 inches and usually they are over that. I took so and so and he caught a 25 inch brown.” He’s repeated a dozen times in the time that I’ve known him.
Usually he mentions taking me to these fabled ponds when there’s a chance of high water or something that might keep us from fishing the many area rivers. A couple of times we’ve planned on going and then decided to go elsewhere at the last minute so year after year these secret gems have eluded me.
Yesterday I was finally able to fish the ponds I’ve heard tell about for three years.
We drove through 5 gates and an equal amount of fields, winding our way over this 1000 + acre farm to find these two beautiful ponds nestled discretely in the middle of nowhere. “Use your 6 wt, big ugly streamers and then hang on” He said smiling as we squeezed ourselves through a small gap in the horse fence.
The two ponds were small, beautiful and certainly looked fishy with plenty of overhanging willows, a small island with a tree and some undercut banks which promised to hold big browns just begging to chase a piece of bunny fur.
I strung up my 6 weight and tied on a Zonker and went to it, giggling with anticipation.
Okay… so, a fish on the first cast would have been nice but fly fishing takes patience right.
About 300 casts, every color and size I carry and a very sore arm later I’m still slapping the water looking for Mr. Big Brownie with not even a hit to inspire me.
I look across at my buddy who shrugs… “Never been skunked here before.” He says unfazed.
Thanks… that helps a lot.
A few more casts and he wraps it up and as he walks by mutters, “Fish as long as you like, I’m heading back to the car for a nap.” Which I read as make a couple of casts and let’s go because this is going nowhere.
I stood there defeated and frustrated. How could this be? These are secret ponds… fabled ponds, ponds that legends are made of … I may never fish them again. My mind raced, my arm throbbed. Okay three more casts. This of course, if you fish usually translates to, thirty more casts; but this time I meant it. Three more casts… that’s final.
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I opened my streamer box and stared blankly into it. Every fly wet… dripping with failure.
Except one.
One lonely fly, just sitting there in the dark corner of my box which has never graced my line or seen the light of day; an unknown little fuzz called a “Wooden Partridge”.
Well, I thought, reaching for my nippers to release the black leech I had been slinging for the past 30 minutes, I have nothing to lose. I tied on this strange little underdog of a fly, stripped out some line and wished it well. “Three casts… that’s all you get.” I said out loud as I winced in pain as I tried my clumsy double haul to get the maximum strip back. The fly landed with a splash under the shade of the big willow where I had previously made a dozen or more cast.
Slap… Strip, Strip, Strip….
It was then I saw it. Out from under the limbs that draped into the water, a wake that looked like a naval sub bee lining directly for where the fly had landed. My heart leaped.
Strip, Strip… Wham! Zip, Zing… SNAP!
NOOOO!
There I stood, mouth open wide and my line piled at my feet and somewhere in the depths of that pond Mr. Big Brownie sporting a “Wooden Partridge” lip ring.
I still had two more cast in my quota but decide that not only did I not have another “Wooden Partridge” it would make a better story if I just left it at that.
True story.
 
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